


Ice Princess Mourinho - Fic

by silkstocking (orphan_account)



Category: Football RPF, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AO3 Tags - Freeform, Bathing/Washing, Deliberate Badfic, Dog Tags, Dragons, F/M, Florist Derek, Game of Thrones-esque, Les Mis Across History, My First Work in This Fandom, Nipples, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Fandoms Not Mentioned in Tags, Tags May Change, The Goddamn Batman - Freeform, Worth It, Worth Re-Reading, everyone is unicorns, i don't know who plays for chelsea i'm sorry, i hope that's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone drew this BEAUTIFUL artwork and I wanted to write an awesome story to go with it, but I don't know anything about football managers :( So I asked some people for some prompts and used those to write my story I hope it's accurate you can blame those people if it isn't!! Please don't flame. DON'T LIKE DON'T READ. PLEASE R + R!!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Princess Mourinho - Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ice Princess Mourinho](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315705) by Anonymous. 



You stand up from the bathtub, letting the water cascade down over your naked body. The tub in the locker room is never hot enough for you. You are the blood of the dragon. You step down onto the cold tiled floor, savouring the feeling of the cool air on your wet skin, making goose-pimples rise and your nipples harden on your small, pert breasts. You look around, but your manservant is nowhere to be seen.

“Drogba!” you yell, but he does not come running.

Without him you are unable to tie your cravat, so your whole outfit will be ruined. You sigh, and go about the business of anointing your nipples with perfume, as is traditional; this scent is a little spicy, a little sweet, like you.

After putting on your dress and making sure your hair flows as regally as it should down your back, you exit the locker room onto the frozen pitch. As you reach the end of the tunnel, two unicorns frolick past.

“Torres! Ramos!” you shout.

“Sorry boss,” Torres whickers as they take their places in the line up.

“Where is Drogba?” you ask the assembled footballers.

“He was taken by the gendarmerie,” says Lampard sadly. “It was a fellow in a top hat. Kept saying his own name a lot.”

You gasp. Perhaps your secret underground revolutionary cell is not as secret as it should be. You hope that your secret flower arranging habit is still secret; if that should get out, it would be disastrous. You can feel the anger bubbling under the surface of your skin. Your dragons screech and wheel in the air above you, feeling your emotions.

“Right,” you choke out, “let’s play some football.” It’s the only thing that keeps you in control. You are the blood of the dragon, you remind yourself. You are José Mário dos Santos Mourinho Félix, known as Special One, the first of your name, Queen of Chelsea, Porto, and Internazionale, The Breaker of Records, Khaleesi of Stamford Bridge and Mother of Dragons. You will not be beaten by one police inspector. You are of the night. You are the Batman.

You shake your head to clear it and realise that a player has come right up to you and is sniffing your perfumed breasts. You shake him off with a flick of your regal hand and he sinks to his knees before you.

“Allow me to lick your boots, Khaleesi,” he begs, and you smile. 

Fire cannot kill a dragon.


End file.
